Until You Loved Me (Silver Springs #3)(87)

“He told you I’d hired him?”

“No. Wouldn’t say much, just handed me his card. But I knew it the second I saw he was a private investigator. I always expected someone to come knocking on my door—eventually. A person can’t run from the past forever.”

Hudson felt as if the atmospheric pressure had skyrocketed—and was threatening to crush him. “You ran for pretty long—and I wish you were still running. Or that you had killed me that day. That would’ve been better than learning what I’ve just learned.”

Cort seemed shocked by the conviction in Hudson’s voice. “You’ve had a good life,” he argued. “Look at this place.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Hudson said. “Now, get out. Get out and don’t ever contact me again.”

“What about Julia? She’ll die and leave those children motherless if she can’t get some help.”

“I said get out!” Hudson yelled, and the murder he was feeling in his heart must’ve shown on his face, because Cort scrambled for the door as fast as his spindly legs could carry him and didn’t stop to look back.

That was when Hudson turned to see a shocked Ellie standing at the foot of the stairs, her mouth agape.

He was almost certain she’d heard everything.





22

Hudson couldn’t bear the look of pity on Ellie’s face. He’d been “that kid” his whole life. Different. An outsider. Alone in a way few people could relate to. If Cort Matisson was as desperate for money as he claimed, he could easily sell his story to the press. What was there to stop him? And if he did that, even Hudson’s fame couldn’t compensate for that kind of blow. Just when he was getting excited about having a child of his own, when he felt he might finally outrun his past and be almost like everyone else, the reason for his abandonment could very easily come out and be immortalized by his fame.

You’ve had a good life. Crazy thing was, the old bastard was right about that, at least for the past decade. Hudson had reached a pinnacle few people attained, even if they made it to the competitive arena of professional sports. He’d fought hard to fill the holes in his life, to make himself enviable if he couldn’t be loved. It wasn’t fair that something like this, something completely outside his control, could overshadow it all in the end.

He could only imagine what the press would make of Cort Matisson and his daughter—whose name Hudson didn’t want to remember because it made her too real, too familiar. If and when the information got out that his parents had been found after thirty-two years, and the circumstances surrounding his birth were more scandalous than anyone had ever imagined, it would spread like wildfire. His name would be coupled with incest on every TV channel. That was what he’d be remembered for, no matter how many passes he completed, games he won or Super Bowl rings he collected. He could do nothing to compensate this time the way he’d tried so hard to compensate in the past.

“Hudson.” Ellie, her voice full of compassion, came to meet him as he stalked to the stairs, but he circumvented her. He didn’t want her to feel sorry for him. He wanted to be someone she could be proud of—as proud as he was of her.

“Can we talk about what just happened?” she asked as he passed.

What was there to say? His genetic contribution to their child was now tainted. He was beyond embarrassed, beyond humiliated. “You should go back to Miami, forget you ever met me. I’ll still send you money.”

“Hudson, stop.” She followed him and stood in the doorway of his room while he jerked on his clothes. “Don’t overreact.”

Overreact? He whirled on her. “How could anyone overreact? Could there be anything worse?”

“It’s a terrible thing, what that man did, a terrible thing to learn that you’re connected to it—”

“I’m not just connected to it. I’m the result of it. I wouldn’t be here if not for what he did.”

“But you’re not the act that created you! You’re something special—with or without football. It was his actions that were depraved. You had no choice in any of it. You were simply a victim of his selfishness. So was your mother.”

He tied his shoes. “Easy for you to say. I can’t even think about it without wanting to throw up.”

She looked worried. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m leaving,” he said as he grabbed his wallet and the keys to his Porsche.

“To go where?”

“I don’t know.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “Maybe I won’t come back.”

Her eyes widened in appeal. “Don’t leave, especially like this. You’re so upset. If you stay, I’ll do anything I can to make you feel better. We’ll work this out between us—get to a place where you can live with it. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.” He headed back down the stairs but, again, she hurried after him.

“How do you know this man is even telling the truth? That your mother, if she is your mother, is actually sick? Let’s check out his story—check him out—before we get too worried.”